an evening of puking, dancing, and inappropriate touching
by celaenos
Summary: Moriarty shows up drunk on Joan's front doorstep, and her night takes a turn she hadn't expected. (Joaniarty Week, super drunk, Moriarty thinks she's funny prompt)


Moriarty lifts her head up and grins madly at Joan. She appears to be using the doorframe of the brownstone to keep herself upright. A chuckle that more closely resembles a snort falls from her lips, "Joan!" she cheers, "you look ravishing!"

"Oh... my god," Joan proclaims with shock, "you're _drunk_."

"I am not!" Moriarty insists, "I am never drunk." She tries to stand without leaning against the wall and deems it a poor idea. Which doesn't do much to prove her point. "I do appear to be inebriated in some vein however. Please tell me I'm not dying. I would so hate to die before I kissed you." Joan's eyes widen as Moriarty pitches forward and stumbles, Joan only just managing to catch her at the last second. "Oh dear." Moriarty groans, then proceeds to vomit all over Joan's socks.

Joan bites her lips to keep from cursing. Of course this would only happen at a time when Sherlock decided to go on a vacation to examine some _fucking bees_.

Moriarty groans again and Joan hauls her inside, deciding to ignore the pile of vomit on the front steps for now. Moriarty is taller than Joan, and not easy to maneuver at all, but somehow, Joan manages to get her into the bathroom on the ground floor. Not a moment too soon, as Moriarty vomits again. Into the toilet this time at least.

"_Why_ are you wandering around drunk in New York?" Joan asks as she delicately pulls off her socks and drops them straight into the laundry.

Moriarty only rolls her head around to face Joan, leaving her cheek resting on the toilet seat. "I... am not drunk." She repeats.

"You most certainly are. How much have you had to drink? And don't you have bodyguards who can hold your hair back for you." Joan glances down at her, "there's vomit in your hair by the way."

Moriarty throws up again in response.

Joan decides to leave her there, and goes about cleaning up the mess on the front steps quickly. Then sheds her smelly clothes and puts on clean ones before making her way back down to the bathroom. Moriarty hasn't moved.

"I am not drunk." She repeats again. Joan only snorts and dumps her clothes in the laundry. "I'm _not_." she pauses, "well I didn't _intend_ to be. I ingested something. I'm not sure exactly what, but I've an inkling. It's why I came here. It may only be alcohol, but I wanted to be sure."

Joan bends down to her immediately, she can hear the tiniest hint of—not fear exactly, but as close as Moriarty probably ever comes—in her voice. "You should be at a hospital, I can't exactly run a tox-screen on you here."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something." Moriarty's face pales, "I'm going to vomit again." She announces, than does.

Joan frowns, "stay here." She orders and heads upstairs to see what she's still got left over from monitoring Sherlock's drug use. When she comes back downstairs, Moriarty has moved to slump against the tub. She smiles at Joan's presence, and Joan decides to chock that up to her inebriated state. "Open up," she says, then swabs Moriarty's mouth. "If it turns blue, you've got drugs in your system, yellow is alcohol." She shakes the tube and it turns a yellow-green. Alcohol laced with something probably. Joan frowns. "It looks like you've probably gotten most of it out of your system, I'll monitor you just to be sure."

"Why thank you. I'm done vomiting now."

"Are you sure?" Joan asks dubiously. She's not interested in being vomited on again. Once is enough for a lifetime, let alone a single evening.

Moriarty nods and crawls over to Joan, grabbing her around the waist. "Yes, let's have tea!" she smacks her lips, grimacing. "My mouth tastes ghastly."

Joan helps Moriarty to her feet, then pushes her head down towards the sink. Moriarty yelps a little in surprise as Joan washes the vomit out of the ends of her hair. This is not how she wanted her night to go—at all. They haven't seen Moriarty in a few months, but since being released from prison, she's dropped by on occasion. Always unannounced. She keeps up a semi-regular correspondence with Sherlock via letters, but Joan knows it's dropped off lately. Every once in a while, Joan will receive a text message from a blocked number. But there hasn't been one in weeks. Neither of them had any idea that Moriarty was even in the country. Last Joan knew, she was somewhere in Romania.

They make their way into the kitchen, Moriarty does indeed seem better now, she's... chipper. All thoughts of vomit seemingly vanished. Giggling at _everything_. Joan bites her lip and starts to make tea. Moriarty sits still at a kitchen chair for about seven seconds, then moves over to stand immediately next to Joan, using her body to keep herself fully upright. Her hands rest on Joan's shoulders and Joan bristles a little at the contact.

The tea finally whistles and Joan grabs two mugs, fills them and shuffles awkwardly with Moriarty into the living room. Moriarty slumps down onto the couch and Joan hands her a mug. Before Joan can move over to the red chair in the corner, Moriarty grabs her hand and yanks her down beside her. Joan marvels at her strength, and glares as some of her tea spills out onto the floor.

"My apologies," Moriarty says with a giggle and leans her head back against the couch. "Is Sherlock enjoying Argentina?"

Joan's eyebrows widen, "how'd you know he was there?"

Moriarty looks at her as if she were a child asking an inane question. "Watson my dear, I _always_ know where the both of you are."

"That's... disconcerting."

Moriarty shrugs, sips her tea once, then abandons it to the small table beside the couch. "Did you really not think I would?"

"Well... I suppose, but it's still creepy to have a criminal constantly tracking your whereabouts."

"A criminal who is your friend." Moriarty corrects.

"I—I don't think friend is an accurate term."

Moriarty tilts her head towards Joan, suddenly looking very sober, "what would the correct term be Joan?"

Something twists down in Joan's gut. She has no idea what would be the correct way to describe their relationship. She is Sherlock's ex, a criminal Joan helped incarcerate, an occasional consultant on cases, a woman who sends her snippets of poetry and inappropriate text messages, flirts with abandon, a genius, a murderer, a manipulator, and someone who has saved both Joan and Sherlock's life on more than one occasion.

It is complicated to say the least.

"I don't know." Joan answers her honestly. Moriarty stares at her a minute longer, eyes boring into Joan's uncomfortably. Then, she flips her body over with impressive agility for someone so wasted and lands with a thump on the floor, giggling madly. Joan let's out a chuckle before clamping her lips together.

"Watson, come sit down here with me."

"I'm good up here."

Moriarty pouts. Like a child. Like _Sherlock_. It's the most uncomfortable Joan has ever felt around her. It makes her look young and _normal_. Like she isn't a mass murdering criminal.

Before Joan can say anything else, Moriarty lifts her body up onto her elbows and rises up into a headstand. Joan gapes at her. Moriarty grins, upside-down and crooked and Joan _refuses_ to consider it adorable. Moriarty sticks her tongue out, "Joan! Look!" She giggles, then falls over, her balance not what it would be if she weren't drunk. Joan jumps forward on instinct and catches her legs a bit before Moriarty's head slams into the ground. As it is, she still hits the floor hard. "Ompf, that hurt." Moriarty whines. She drops her head down into Joan's lap. Hurriedly, Joan sets her mug of tea up on the magazine stand and tries to push Moriarty off of her. But Moriarty clings to her thighs tightly. "Music!" She yells, suddenly, "Watson! We need music." And off she goes, jumping up, tripping, nearly falling over, somehow catching herself, and turns the radio on. Fiddling with the dials, she settles on what appears to be a hark rock station. _'Satisfaction'_ by the Rolling Stones bellows out and fills the room. Joan watches from the floor in shock as Moriarty starts flinging her body around with glee. It's manic and with no hint of rhythm at all. Joan finds it endearing. And she hates herself for it. Desperately trying to press her lips together to keep herself from smiling. "Dance with me Joan!" Moriarty yells.

"I'm... not really much of a dancer."

"Oh who cares come _on_!" Moriarty bends down to pull her up and falls into Joan instead, laughing hysterically. "Joan, you are very tiny." She says, staring down at Joan. "And..." her hands come up and cup Joan's breasts. Horrified, Joan freezes underneath her. "You have magnificent breasts." Moriarty looks up from Joan's chest to her face, hands still groping her. "Have I told you that before?" She asks innocently. Joan somehow manages to shake her head, still frozen. "I should have done." Moriarty says with a frown. "You should be told that often."

Joan wants to sink down into the floor, instead she nods once, sharply and lifts Moriarty's hands up and away from her chest. "Thank you." She says stiffly.

Moriarty takes this opportunity to flip her body around and lie down with her head in Joan's lap. "Will you play with my hair?" Joan would like to do nothing less, and tells her so. "Please?" Moriarty asks, "I'll play with yours. And I tell you that you have magnificent breasts."

"You already said that."

"Did I?" Joan nods. "Well, I'll say it again!"

"No thank you."

"You do though, can you take your shirt off? I'd like to see them properly."

"That is... absolutely _not _going to happen."

"I'll kiss you if you do!" Moriarty offers, looking up at Joan with a grin.

"No thank you."

"I'll..." Moriarty stares off into the empty fireplace, "I'll not complete the robbery I had planned for Tuesday! Oh bugger, never mind, I need that to go through. What would you like? Anything and I'll give it to you. Would you like a million dollars?"

Part of Joan wants to say yes, sneak a million out of a trashed Moriarty; Sherlock would be so proud. But she's not about to take her shirt off for it.

"No." Joan says, "my shirt is staying on."

Moriarty pouts, readjusting herself on Joan's lap, "that's disappointing."

"Is there someone you want to call... to come get you? Like... someone who works for you? Who's job it is to do this sort of thing?"

"Do you really think I'd ever let one of my employees see me inebriated like this? Honestly Watson, why do you think I don't drink?"

Joan sighs, it was worth a try. "Well... are you tired? You should probably just sleep it off."

"Joan, it's seven pm."

"_I'm_ tired." Joan mutters.

Another Rolling Stones song comes on and Moriarty gasps. "_I was born... in a crossfire hurricane."_ She sings and jumps up. And her voice is beautiful, because of course it is. Joan thinks bitterly. She watches as Moriarty performs some sort of ballet move that shows she's had training, and then falls over again. She giggles, and stands up to do it again. Totally out of rhythm with the song, she whips her body around, manages to stay upright this time, and drags Joan up with her.

Joan starts to protest, but decides that tiring out Moriarty as soon as possible is the best way to end this night of torment. So she jumps along in time with the music, looking like a fool because she's never been a good dancer. Moriarty cheers and grabs her hands, jumping up and down manically with her. Joan is loathe to admit, but by the third song, she is having fun.

Moriarty wraps herself around Joan tightly as the music slows. Joan doesn't recognize the song. She freezes as Moriarty presses their bodies together, leaning on Joan heavily. She is about to push her away and try to convince her to go to bed again when Moriarty pulls back slightly on her own. Staring down at Joan intently, she seems to be thinking about something with the intensity that only the very high or drunk can manage.

"You are quite beautiful Watson." She whispers. And Joan stills against her. Moriarty bends forward and kisses Joan before she can do anything. It only lasts a few seconds, but as the song changes, Moriarty grins against Joan's mouth; pulling away and cheering. She bounces around again, twirling through the room into the kitchen as if she hasn't just kissed Joan.

Joan stands there in the middle of the room in shock. But runs forward as Moriarty tries to climb up onto the kitchen table and continue dancing from there. She'll fall and crack her head open and then Joan will be forced to take a drunk criminal mastermind to the ER. There will be paperwork and Marcus will find out and never let her hear the end of it.

"Get _down._" Joan hisses and makes a grab for her. Moriarty laughs, as if it's a game, and jumps out of Joan's grasp. She screams as Moriarty leaps from the table to the countertop, nearly falling but catching herself. Hands up in the air, proudly grinning to Joan. "I mean it, Moriarty get _down_. You're going to get hurt."

"Come catch me." Moriarty insists with a gleam in her eye.

Joan sucks in a breath, this is starting to feel like looking after an inappropriate toddler. Joan turns around and walks upstairs, hoping that if she leaves, Moriarty will get bored and come down on her own. It always seems to work whenever she babysits Emily's children.

Joan heads for her bathroom, changing and brushing her teeth for bed. All she wanted this evening was to finish her book and get some much needed sleep. Sherlock is due back sometime tomorrow afternoon, and he will keep her up for hours telling her all about his trip.

When she pads into her bedroom, Moriarty is lying on her bed. "Joan! You left me!" She says accusingly. "That was very rude."

Joan sighs, as Moriarty rolls over and snatches hold of Joan's arm, yanking her down onto the bed. "That hurt." Joan hisses, her head clanked against the wall.

"I'm sorry," Moriarty crawls up, straddling Joan, "I'll kiss it." She smacks her lips loudly against the top of Joan's skull. "All better." She declares.

Joan tries to shove Moriarty off of her, but she tightens her grip. "Moriarty... get... off." Joan huffs.

"Will you play with my hair?"

"Will you get off if I do?"

Moriarty nods enthusiastically.

"Fine. _Get off_."

Moriarty flips her body over, her head dropping down to Joan's lap with a thud. Joan sighs, then begins running her fingers through Moriarty's hair. It's... strangely domestic. Joan realizes now that _Moriarty_, a woman who has slit men's throats with her bare hands, kidnapped children for her own needs, faked her own death and drove Sherlock to drugs; is cuddly, and smiling, and lying in Joan's lap.

She is silent for a few minutes, humming in pleasure occasionally until Joan thinks she might have finally fallen asleep. She stills her hands, about to try and move her off of her lap when Moriarty murmurs, "no, don't stop." Joan resumes, running her fingers through the hair close to her temple. It's silky and feels wonderful in her fingers, after a while, she barely even notices she's doing it. She pulls out her book and decides she can get on with her evening as planned regardless whether Moriarty has invited herself over or not. Before she knows it, she's read though nearly four chapters, all the while playing with Moriarty's hair. A part of her had somehow almost forgotten the other woman was there. Wrapped up in the story she'd been reading, the weight of her comfortable on Joan's lap. Moriarty rolls over, shocking Joan. Her resting on Joan's stomach, the rest of her splayed out over Joan's lap. It's far too intimate. "You don't like me." Moriarty says.

Joan stares at her a moment,"No." she finally says softly. Because it's true.

"But you do."

"Yes." Joan whispers, because that's true too, unfortunately. There is something charismatic and captivating about this woman. Despite everything Joan knows of her, there are moments—like this one—where Moriarty looks at her in such a way that Joan wants... more. Wishes desperately that she wasn't a murder, a criminal, just a woman so Joan wouldn't feel guilty for feeling this way about her. She knows that Sherlock has come to some sort of begrudging, snappish, acquaintance with Moriarty. She doubts he would ever call her his friend, but there is an understanding between the two of them. They are more alike than Joan usually admits. Enigmatic in the same way. Except Joan has never felt hot and nervous under Sherlock's gaze. Never felt like she wanted to reach forward and kiss him. And apart from the single time he went after Sebastian Moran, she's never been afraid of him.

Moriarty seems to detect all of this through Joan's look, and for the second time that night, she lifts her body up, and presses their lips together. Joan hums in surprise, and after a second, finds herself responding to the kiss. Horrified, she pulls back the moment she catches herself. Turning away from Moriarty and shoving her off a bit.

Moriarty doesn't look offended; rather, she looks amused. Sober, back to her usual cocky smirking self. It only lasts a second—she is still quite drunk—and she flops herself down onto the bed beside Joan. "You have very soft lips."

"Don't do that again."

"Alright."

"I'm going to bed."

"Alright."

Joan sets her book down on the nightstand, "you can sleep down in Sherlock's room."

"Can't I just stay here? I'm rather comfortable."

"No." Joan says firmly.

"Please?"

Joan looks her in the eye, "no." she repeats.

"Well alright fine." Moriarty snaps, and rolls herself off the bed and lands on the floor with a thump. Joan watches, holding her breath as Moriarty clumsily makes her way downstairs. She waits, incase she hears another crash. After nearly twenty minutes without so much as a small noise, Joan decides she's made it fine, and turns off the light. It takes her nearly another hour and a half to finally fall into a fitful sleep.

…

…

When Joan wakes the next morning and pads downstairs, she finds Sherlock's bed looking slept in, but empty. There is fresh coffee made in the pot and a note beside it, written in Moriarty's elegant script.

_Joan, _

_Thank you for the hospitality last night. I am ever so sorry to have imposed on you like that. I am sure you will take some satisfaction in knowing that I have an incredible hangover this morning. Do give Sherlock my best, there are some peaches from the farmer's market you like in the bowl on the counter, I'll see the two of you soon I'm sure. _

_ -M_

_P.S. You do have magnificent breasts, and lips. I don't apologize in telling you so. _

Joan pinches the bridge of her nose, and sets the letter down on the table. Washing and cutting up one of the peaches—she does really love them—and pouring herself a mug of coffee. She hasn't even sat down when Sherlock comes bursting through the front door, yelling, "Watson! I'm home early!" Joan snatches the letter and folds it, tucking it into the pocket in her hoodie as Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time.

"How was your trip?" She asks.

"Magnificent!" He yells. Joan groans internally at the word, then smiles at him as he starts regaling her with every little detail of his trip. Starting with the imbeciles working at the airport who tried to deem his jar of honey as a potential hazard to national security.


End file.
